Opera Ghosts
by Random-Battlecry
Summary: A phantom, a shade, and a rat catcher walk into a bar. What is this, says the bartender, some sort of joke? Leroux characters, lost in ALW land.
1. Saaaaaaaaved!

**A/N: This is an unholy experiment in sticking Leroux characters in ALW-land. As usual, I'm not entirely sure where it's going. (And yes, it was intended to be a one shot, but... won't be. Deja vu, anyone?)**

**Part One: Saaaaaaaved!**

There comes a day when the cruelest of cruelties can no longer be endured, and so in the light of a waning autumn sun, the boy's stick-fingers crawled from between the bars of his cage— thankfully, still attached to his hands, however. He held his breath, positioned himself well. Reached around the neck of the man in front of him— the bad man, the cruel man, the man with a million iniquities and quite foul breath— and began his task of quiet strangulation. A daunting duty for a small boy, but quite necessary, to sate his rage.

It took longer than he thought, and the bag kept slipping down so he could not see. He tossed his head jerkily backwards to try to free his eyesight; in his hands the man danced like a marionette. The life seeped from the body as the sun seeped from the sky; the boy let the bone-bag drop to the ground, and gripped the bars with his hands.

The girl from earlier had been observing this, silently— this, the boy thought, was odd. But now she stepped forward, and took the ring of rusty keys from the man's— the bad man's, the dead man's— belt.

For a moment she paused, in the act of inserting the toothy thing into the lock. Their eyes met. Then her fingers moved swiftly; she unlocked the cage and swung the door open in one fluid movement. The boy emerged, staring only at his savior. Not paying attention, he naturally tripped over the man's— the dead man's, the bad dead man's— body, but only a little. The girl caught his arm.

"Come," she commanded, simply, and towed him in her wake for several steps.

"Wait," said the boy, twisting in her grasp, but she was bigger and older than he, and more determined. She was not the type of girl to do things by halves. Saved he needed to be, and saved he would be, and she would be doing the saving.

"Where are you taking me?" said the boy. "Wait!"

"The cellars," she told him, not quite realizing just how ominous that sounded. "And no. We must hurry, or they'll catch you."

He pried at her fingers with his other hand. She ignored him. He bit her. She yelped, and spun around to face him. But the boy with the bag over his head wasn't looking at her; he was looking to his left, where in the gloom she could perceive two more looming iron cages. Two more sets of pale hands, wrapped around the bars, and two pale faces to go with them. These boys had nothing to cover them. They weren't quite on the order of the Devil's Child, she supposed— a bit lumpen and misshapen, certainly, and the one on the right had a brow that protruded crag-like, throwing his face into shadow. And only one eyebrow, but there were things that could be done about that, she supposed. These were modern times, after all.

She looked at the boy she'd liberated. Impassively, he stared back at her.

"Oh, alright," she relented, and hunted through the keys. "This is the last time I risk my neck for you. Or your friends."

It wasn't, of course, not by a long shot, but she couldn't be expected to know that. All hints of clairvoyance and ability to see the future had been soundly beaten from her at an early age by her mother, a good Catholic woman.

The keys were found, the locks undone, and the two captives stepped from their cages, freed at last. "Thank God," said one fervently, rubbing his wrists as though they had been manacled.

"Poor thing," said the girl, pityingly, "how long have you been in that wretched cell?"

"Nearly an hour," said the boy. "It's been awful." He glanced to the first boy, who stood stoic and still. "How did you get out, Erik?"

"_Murder_," breathed the boy, this boy named— apparently— Erik.

"Well, actually, excuse me, _I_ helped," said the girl, stung at this snub. Erik ignored her. The other boys did likewise, only looked to their apparent leader, the Devil's Child.

"What are we going to do? Run?"

"Run," said the one with the single eyebrow, breathlessly as though he'd already been doing so. "Run! Run! Run!" The other shushed him, and he gave a slight squeak, at which he looked bemused and glanced around himself, not seeming to realize where the sound had come from.

"Yes," said the boy, the boy named— apparently— Erik. "Yes, we shall run."

He took to his heels without a moment's pause, and the sound of his bare feet pattering on the cobblestones echoed down the alleyway. The other nodded briefly at the girl— their savior— and said, "Well, au revoir, then."

"Run," said his monobrowed companion, cheerfully, as though discussing sunny weather, "run and run and run. Don't look back, for they're coming, and they'll catch you!"

"Oh, hush," said the other, and took him by his sleeve to tow him along as he chased Erik. The girl stood baffled for a moment, looking after them.

"Oh!" she said. "Wait! No! The cellars! I— I saved you!"

She was their savior, after all. Their savior! How dare they run off without following her advice? This mission of hers would not be complete till they were safely ensconced beneath the Opera House, after all. If she let them go now, she would feel all itchy and headachey like after that incident with Mr. Herman and the chicken, and then the voices would start up again. She really, really _hated_ leaving things undone.

And so she picked up her skirts, and pelted after them.

The boys had known fear throughout their days in the circus, had known terror, had known horror and shame. Had known the laugh of a derisive crowd, and the sting of the whip wielded by the man— the bad man! The evil man! The dead man, now!— who kept them captive. None of it quite compared with the sight of the determined young woman chasing after them, skirts in white-knuckled hands, eyes narrowed, teeth clenched. She sailed past one, then the other, then caught up to Erik and grabbed him by the arm.

"To the _cellars_!" she howled, breathing hard, triumphant. _"Quickly, before they catch you, before anyone sees!_"

"Ow," said Erik, twisting in her grasp. But she remained firm. In the face of the intrigued onlookers, she hustled him into an alleyway, headed for the secret door to the cellars. She had done it! She had rescued this poor boy! She was a savior! She had saved him, and now he was saved, and by God he wouldn't get unsaved, either, not if she had anything to say about it.

Behind them, the other two boys looked at each other and shrugged. They followed. There seemed nothing else to do.

"By Jove," said Lord Dunesbury— you may forget the name, it is hardly important— glancing about his party as they watched the boys out of sight. "Did you see the strength of that gel? Hauling that poor fellow like a tug tossed by a frigate on a windy night, eh what?"

"A curious thing," said another.

"In broad daylight, too," said a third.

"Ah well," said Dunesbury's wife, and glanced up at the building outside which they stood. She sniffed a bit, genteelly. "Those opera folk, you know. _Anything_ for a scene."

* * *

><p>Winding their way beneath the cellars, the two boys followed haplessly after their captured leader. The female was terrifying, it was true, but at the same time, so was Erik— they weren't entirely sure what was going on here. Why did he not pinch her, or trip her, or bite her again, and escape? It would be the work of a moment. And then they could run.<p>

"Run! Run! Run! Run!"

"Shhhh."

The female looked back at them, and shook her head. "You may run if you like. I don't care. We're almost to the lake, you see, and if you run quickly enough you may slip and fall in and be eaten by the fish. Wet banks, you see."

She pulled the boy another few steps, then stopped and turned to him. There was a lake, indeed. It was vast, and glassy. There was mist on it, swirling. She let the boy go, and he folded his arms.

"My name is Mademoiselle Giry," said the girl, and gave him a ridiculous curtsey. "I'm in the corps de ballet."

The boy shuddered, but it was a knowing sort of shudder, a shudder that spoke volumes though Giry could not hear. "_Corpse?_"

"Corps."

"That's what I— ah. I think, mademoiselle, your pronunciation may leave a bit lacking." He stalked around her, slowly, while she clasped her hands together and thrilled. Saved! He was saved! Saaaaaved!

Once around to the front again, the boy straightened his thin shoulders, took a deep breath, and said, imposingly, "And I—"

"I know who you are," said little Giry, importantly. "You're Erik."

Erik's body gave a little twitch. "I _am_," he said, though the grandeur was somewhat lost and he looked deflated.

"You're not really the Devil's Child, are you?" said Giry.

Erik did not dignify that with an answer. The other two boys approached them now, quietly, and he turned to his companions.

"Josue," he said in greeting.

"Erik," said Josue. This was the boy with two eyebrows. Giry was suddenly grateful for the other's breach of tradition when it came to facial hair— without counting eyebrows, she could hardly tell the difference between the two. Oh, all boys looked the same, it was just as her mamma had said. And the three before her were surely the most motley gang of misfits that could ever be imagined.

Surely the most motley gang of misfits that had ever been saved by a fifteen-year-old ballerina. She straightened her back, and tried her best to be graceful.

"And the other?" she prompted.

"His name is Todd, I think," said Josue slowly. "But we usually call him Torgo."

"Indeed. And is Torgo aware that he has a rat on his head?"

The three stared at her. Erik's eyes were a flash of yellow-green beneath the bag. Josue's were black. It was impossible to tell the color of Todd/Torgo's eyes, what with the overshadowing of the ferocious eyebrow. She was in fact doing him a favor in supposing that he had eyes at all.

"He always has a rat on his head," said Josue. "It lives there."

"Ah." Giry shuddered, girlishly. "That's hardly hygienic."

"Nor are those shoes," pointed out Erik. Giry tried to hide each foot behind the other, with little success. Indeed, her shoes were a bit manky. That was the downside of her self-imposed vow never to take them off, given eight years ago when she had come to the Opera House. Credit where credit was due, though, they had kept their shape remarkably well, apart from the splits on either side.

She turned gracefully from the trio, toes flapping.

"Come," she trilled behind her, "I will find you a place to stay. You must remain here and never leave. One of you has blood on your hands, after all. The authorities will surely be looking for you."

"We can go in disguise," said Erik.

She turned to him. "You're wearing a bag over your head. Surely they'll realize who you are."

"I can get another bag," the boy told her, stiffly.

"All bags look the same." She folded her arms. To come this close and go— _no!_ It must not happen. They must be saved.

"I will paint a face on it, and wear a hat."

"And then you will look like a clown. Clowns are suspicious." The girl shuddered. "And horrid. Don't be a silly boy, Erik. Come with me."

He hesitated, looked about to object, but she had caught hold of his sleeve again and was once more towing him behind her. He dragged his feet only a little. The two others looked at each other, shrugged, and followed.

She led them to a wide ledge on the far side of the lake, and took a moment to swing her arms wide as if showing the space off. "_Perfect_!" she announced, in an absolute frenzy of enthusiasm. "Just what is needed for three young bachelors." They ignored this. It seemed safest. Erik stood with arms folded and looked off towards the lake; Josue found a stick to poke at things with; Todd that was Torgo had found an entire nest of rats in a dark corner and was in ecstacy. He gathered them up and marched back out to the light, the bundle of fur in his arms making angry squeaking noises.

"We're home!" he said, joyfully.

Little Giry could not help but give him a fond smile.

"Indeed you are," she said, and went to pat him on the head, but the resident rat hissed at her and she withdrew rather quickly. "All of you are home. All of you are saved. All of you will stay here with me, and I will tend to you and care for you, and bring you food. And you can live like normal people live."

"Five cellars below an Opera House?" said Erik, deadpan. Beneath the bag, surely one eyebrow was raised caustically.

"It's better than a cold iron cage, no?" shot back Giry.

"That remains to be seen." His eyes slid once more back out to the lake, finding solace in the space of it, the emptiness, the lapping water. Giry hesitated.

"You will stay, won't you?" she said. "I'd like you to stay."

Erik said nothing. Josue would not meet her eyes. Torgo was nuzzling a rat against his face.

"If you don't stay," said Giry, imperiously, "I will find you. Wherever you go, _I'll_ be there. No matter where you hide, _I_ will yet seek. In the depths of the darkness, when you think all is lost, _I_ will be there to bring light to you. No ingenues will break your heart; no mob will hunt you down with pitchforks and torches. Erik— boys— _I will always come for you._"

There was silence, and beneath it the vague sound of the lake, lapping, and someone sobbing gently into a warm furry body.

"Now you've frightened Torgo," said Erik, still not looking at her. "I think that's enough damage done for one day, don't you?"

"Always!" bawled little Giry in a blast of emotion. Caught up in the moment, she shook her fist at them. It wasn't quite what she wanted to do, but she'd always put so much emphasis on moving her feet the correct way that occasionally her hands did things without permission. She took to her heels, then, the aging leather creaking ominously around her swollen feet, and pattered off back towards the Opera House proper. Boys! She had _boys!_ Boys of her own, just like she'd always wanted! And she had saved them! Saved them! _Saved them!_

In the Rue Scribe she found a kitten that needed desperately to be saved from a merchant's cart— and she saved it, too! Oh, there was some pain involved, but still! _Saved!_

All in all, it was a very good day, little Giry thought to herself complacently, and nursing her cart-crushed fingers and her scratched arms, she went humming to bed.


	2. In The Swim

**Part Two: In The Swim**

Beneath the revered Opera House, unholy things were occurring. Most of these, however, were the result of perfectly normal boyhood, and though the environment was a bit worse off for it, there had been no lasting harm done. Torgo had installed his rats with joy and tenderness; well-accustomed to the darkness, not bothered by the damp, they took over the area with alacrity. Josue occupied himself with etching words and figures onto the stone walls. Erik brooded; he'd had lots of practice at this, and was becoming accomplished.

He itched irritably at the bag on his head, which bothered his scalp. It was a constant sort of nag, and he was used to it, but tradition failed to be a comfort when it felt like he was being attacked by hundreds of tiny mites. Which was not completely unfeasible; the bag was infrequently washed, after all. Almost as infrequently as Erik's hair.

Come to think of it, that might be part of the problem.

Facing the lake, he folded his arms and sighed testily. A moment ago he had been awash in melancholy; the melancholia had faded, given way to a brief bout of perturbation, which in turn had turned to irritation with the itch at his scalp. As young as he was, Erik was well on the way to developing a personality more mercurial than a thermometer. He was aided in this by the fact that the world was, indeed, out to get him.

"Why is there a lake at the bottom of an opera house?" he demanded, peevishly.

"Why not?" said Josue laconically. He was in the midst of deciding whether to switch from the Spanish to the English version of his name— from Josue to Joshua, in fact— and had no time for such trifles as unexplained lakes. But Todd-that-was-Torgo had an opinion.

Perhaps not an opinion on the matter at hand, but something to say nonetheless.

"I bit my hand," he said, petulantly, holding it up for Erik to inspect, "why did I bite my hand?"

Erik took his hand in spindly, ice-cold fingers, and poked at the teeth marks.

"Hunger, I expect."

"Ah, yes."

Joshua— it was certainly more lyrical than the name his Spanish immigrant parents had landed him with, he thought— rubbed anxiously at his stomach. The suggestion had reminded him that it had indeed been a very long time since they had eaten. Several hours, at least.

"What does that Giry expect us to do?" he demanded. "We can't just stay here forever, lurking in the darkness. What sort of life is that for a young man?"

"A young man who has recently escaped from the freak show," Erik reminded him.

"Accurate," muttered Joshua, "and devastating." He was quiet a moment, then went on, "And what does she expect us to eat, at any rate? We can't very well not eat."

There was, in the silence, the sound of water, dripping in some hidden corner. The fifth cellar was decidedly dank. The lake did not want for aquatic company.

"We're going to catch colds," said Erik, angrily.

"We could eat the rats," Joshua said, and then had to fend of an enraged Torgo, who leapt on him with tooth and nail, wielding one of said rats in each hand. The four of them went down in a hirsute heap. Erik strolled past the struggling boys, arms folded, and paced along the edge of the lake.

Afar off in the depths was the sound of someone singing, but it danced along the edge of human hearing, and no one recognized it for what it truly was.

Erik's very perturbation was disturbed suddenly by a far-off noise. His head shot upwards, eyes lighting from within, and his slim body went suddenly tense.

"Quiet," he rasped, and the other boys froze on the ground, Torgo in the very act of biting Joshua's forearm. Joshua tugged silently, but Torgo was determined, and held on. There was no disobeying Erik when he used that tone of voice, however, and they were absolutely noiseless in their fight.

Somewhere above, dodging among the drips of water, the noise came. Little scratches, little bumps in the night. Something hiding, something hunting. Something terrible and drastic. Something had followed them to the depths of the opera house, and was even now seeking them out.

"Oh," breathed Erik. "Oh, _no_."

* * *

><p>Mademoiselle Giry— she preferred not to use her first name unless absolutely forced to answer to it, and thus had designated herself Mademoiselle Giry even in her head, which kept a strange sort of formality between herself, and meant she never looked too long in the mirror for fear of being thought rude— Mademoiselle Giry was hustling along the Rue Scribe, to descend once more into the blackness which was a kind of a deep despair, and find Erik and the others.<p>

She had brought them food. Not much food, she had to admit, but food indeed. And why should they complain? She'd sheltered them, was on the very brink of feeding them, had done everything but clothe them— and that was sure to come, for the boys' clothing was in veritable rags. She would have to steal some costumes from the opera wardrobes. She quite fancied seeing Erik in evening dress.

Mademoiselle Giry hitched her skirts up to her knees to clamber gracelessly over a low wall, and nearly tripped once she'd reached the other side. There was no one about to see her; no one about lurking in the dark, for she had reached only the fourth cellar. She spared a giggle at herself, and another one at her frivolity.

I have saved three boys, Little Giry thought to herself, and she meandered faster through the labyrinth, wherein night was admittedly blind. I have saved three boys, and the saving of them is the saving of myself. In saving the saved, I am the savior. The Savior, even. Savior fair—

It was then that the screeching, screaming creature leapt at Giry's netted hair, entwining grimy little fingers and hanging grimly on.

Three boys, and a monkey.

* * *

><p>Three boys watched as Mademoiselle Giry reeled through the entrance to the fifth cellar, fighting gamely with the disturbed little creature who had taken an irrational dislike to her hair net. Erik in particular had a glow about the eyes at the sight. Giry peeled the monkey's paws from her face, one at a time, only to have each one latch back onto her as she loosed it to concentrate on the next.<p>

In short order she had staggered to the edge of the lake and fallen in. Even now the monkey was not deterred, and though it did not love the water it hated Giry's hair net even more. It seemed determined to drown her, and climbing to the top of her head, hopped up and down in an angry little dance, forcing her deeper into the water. Giry floundered. Giry flailed. The monkey hooted and screamed. Giry bubbled and burbled. The monkey yanked viciously, ferociously, at the hair net till the wet web loosened; then, holding the net and taking liberal handfuls of Giry's hair along with it, the little creature leapt to the edge of the lake and raced to take refuge on Joshua's shoulder, where it set to unraveling the hair net in peace and quiet. In the ensuing lull, Giry discovered that the lake was actually quite shallow, in this area.

She stood, and lifted herself streaming and weedy from the depths like some classic and unnamed painting. Her hair unwound itself from its bun, free and faithless. It would be sure to frizz, later. The damp did _horrible _things to it.

The boys did not laugh, because Erik was not laughing. Erik was hiding it, holding on to it. He would wait for the opportune moment, then release it like a pack of hounds, to roll derisively and maniacally over its intended target. Erik never laughed— until it was necessary for dramatic effect.

What he _did_ do, however, was almost worse.

"It followed us home," he said, arms loose and hands ready. "Can we keep it?"


	3. A Present for Poor Erik

**Part Three: A Present For Poor Erik**

The question was not, as it turned out, an actual question so much as it was a token gesture of respect. Mademoiselle Giry could no more refuse Erik than she could stop the sun from advancing in the sky, or force Torgo to let go of that rat _right now_. Or, rather, she could refuse him all she wanted, but it had no practical effect, for he did what he wished regardless.

Which was not, she thought, the proper way to react to your benefactress. But then, the boy clearly hadn't been very well brought up. Though he bowed (frostily) when she wished them a good evening, and acknowledged her presence (icily) when she arrived each afternoon, _please_ and _thank you_ were foreign words to him, in a language he found no use for. _Do such and such_ was a favorite phrase with him, if one substituted for "such and such" whatever imperious request he was currently making.

So the monkey stayed, though she protested. The monkey stayed, and when she came down the next day (walking warily) there was a repeat performance, while the boys stood and watched. Eventually, the monkey returned to its place on Joshua's shoulder, hooting and shrieking, as Mademoiselle Giry slogged her way to the bank of the lake.

"You've found the duckweed," said Erik, by way of greeting. "That was our only one. Please put it back."

Mademoiselle Giry stood and fumed at them all equally. She was not prejudiced; there was no difference between boy and monkey, in her sight. Not when it came to punishment, anyway.

"I'm glad I can entertain you all," she gritted through slightly slimy teeth.

"Oh, me too," said Torgo, enthusiastically. "I would clap, except, you know. The rats." He held up his fur-filled hands to demonstrate.

"Did you want something?" prompted Joshua, petting the monkey. "Only, Giry here is still quite upset."

The sight of Mademoiselle Giry's face as she beheld her namesake was something to behold. Erik, for one, certainly beheld it.

"It's a sort of token of our respect," he said.

His tone was perfectly calm, and Mademoiselle Giry was left with two options: to take the statement at face value and view it as a compliment, or to tease out the underlying insult which, to be honest, was not very deeply hidden. She was a relatively simple girl, was Little Giry, and she took the path of least resistance. Resistance, after all, was widely known to be useless.

"Oh, my beautiful boys," she said, helplessly in love, and utterly wrong on all counts. "How sweet of you, to be sure! I only wish you'd have him checked, to see if he is a girl. And, perhaps, for rabies. But never mind that now. I've brought you some bread." She dug in her pocket and came out with a handful of sog. "It's a bit collapsed now," she admitted, examining it. "But if we spread it out, it will soon dry."

She set to making a sort of bread and mud pie on the bank, while the boys looked on with skeptical disgust. She was humming to herself as she patted it into shape. The two boys looked eagerly at Erik to see if he was possibly going to snap her neck while her attention was elsewhere, but the Devil's child seemed uninclined towards violence at the moment, oddly enough; he was not usually a fan of people humming.

Mademoiselle Giry reflected that it was at times like this that she truly prided herself on her inventiveness. Of which necessity was the mother, which made Mademoiselle Giry a sort of adopted sister, she supposed. It gave her a warm, fuzzy feeling of acceptance that was entirely misguided.

"Oh!" she said, as a thought struck her heavily about the head with enough blunt force to stun a cow, and she hopped totteringly to her feet. "I've brought you a present, Erik!"

"Really, mademoiselle," said Erik politely, "haven't you already done enough?"

"Or too much, maybe," muttered Joshua to Torgo.

"No, no, this is something quite different from saving your hides, giving you new life, granting you a place to live and start over, bringing you food and drink, sustaining your very existence, and becoming a sort of idealized mother figure who yet manages to awaken your early awareness of the feminine form in a complicated way that could only be accurately rendered by Shakespeare after large quantities of ale! This is—" She fumbled in her pocket and withdrew something small and white, which she presented to Erik proudly.

Erik observed it cautiously.

"A golf ball?" he queried after a moment.

"No, no— drat! It got scrunched up in the lake. Just a moment." She set to unraveling the ball of white fabric, which was, eventually, revealed to be an inexpertly-made and very rumpled mask of the half-face variety. Erik's eyes took on an expression of deep skepticism, which Mademoiselle Giry completely misinterpreted.

"Yes, my dearest," she said reverently. "_All for you!_ All for poor Erik!"

Something beneath the bag he wore twitched spasmodically, though it was impossible to tell if it was his lower lip, his upper, his cheek, or even a wayward nostril.

"In case it has somehow escaped your notice, my friend, my face is already far more than adequately covered."

"But you don't _need_ to wear an entire bag," wheedled Little Giry, wheedlingly. "It's really a quite small portion of your face that has— issues. Just think, with this mask, you could go about quite normally!"

Erik sneered so clearly that it was practically visible through the burlap sack.

"_Normally_," he said.

"Yes, _as if_," said Joshua.

But Mademoiselle Giry was nothing if not stubborn; and she was not nothing. "Well, you ought to give it a try," she said. "You can't very well refuse something without having tried it!"

"Mademoiselle, I have as yet refused cannibalism without feeling my worldview too constrained."

"Ah— _ew_." Giry wrinkled her nose. "That's disgusting, Erik."

Erik shrugged. "Even so."

"Are you saying you equate this poor little mask with— eating people?"

"I'm saying, perhaps each had their time of being in vogue; but that time is not this time, and they have fallen out of public favor. Leave my bag alone."

"But Erik," whined Giry. "Erik, the bag needs a wash."

He had to stop and consider that. It was, after all perfectly true.

"That's perfectly true," he said grudgingly.

"I told you!" crowed Little Giry.

"I will need some soap, perhaps."

"Naturally," said Giry, rolling her eyes, and gave the boy a gently upbraiding slap on the back of his head. The— curiously lumpy back of his head.

"Ow," said a voice. Giry frowned at him. Erik stared at her impassively.

"Tricks will get you nowhere," Giry said warningly.

"Your opinion is breathtaking in its utter wrongness," said Erik, politely. He took the mask from her hand and gave her a bow. She echoed it, gravely, and whilst her head was down he returned the slap upside the head, with interest.

She did not complain as she rubbed at her head, though she did frown at him. She was a fair girl, she was— but was that any way to treat the one who'd saved you, really? Who'd saved you and, in addition, had made a mask specifically to fit your unusual face?

No, she really didn't think so. She decided that a dignified and aloof removal of her person was the correct reaction to such an attitude. Her furry namesake attempted to interfere with this plan, but she had fought it off and was making for the door with rapidity when Erik's shout arrested her.

"Mademoiselle!"

She turned back, one foot hovering over the threshold of the door. Erik's voice had a certain commanding quality, to be sure. It made her— dare she admit it— tremble.

But he was looking at her quite calmly, clearly not about to demand that she do something she oughtn't. Perhaps when they were older—

"Our duckweed, mademoiselle."

She gaped at him. He made a sweeping, elegant gesture with one hand, managing to indicate both the aquatic plant that decorated the front of her bodice and the curiously bereft lake simultaneously.

"_Did I not instruct you_ to put it back?"

And he had, after all. She removed it from her dress with some difficult and tossed it. It landed in the lake with a slight plop, and Little Giry raised her chin as she prepared herself to leave once more.

"I do adore you boys," she said. "Regardless of what you do, and how many rats you put in my bed, and how much artful graffiti you apply to the walls, and how often you order me about. My love will never end. _Love never dies_."

Erik felt a little shudder wrack his shoulders, but this was the note that Mademoiselle Giry had decided to end on, and she was gone with only a slight stumble over the threshold.

"Is it just me," ventured Joshua, "or did that sound terribly ominous?"

It wasn't just him.


End file.
